


Familiar Faces

by orphan_account



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Abusive Parents, Anger, Family or Friend?, How Do I Tag, Hurt Michael, I said it, I'm Sorry, Id Pick Family Sorry All You Edgy People, Memories, Michael Needs a Hug, Michael-centric, PTSD, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Perfect Trevor Aint So Perfect, Repressed Memories, Sad, Trevor Is A Bad Friend Sometimes, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 08:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11287161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: So, this is probably going to be kind of a random dump of writings. I'm working through some very annoyingly selective writer's block, bare with me.





	1. Understand

Anger. It was such a tangible thing. One could feel it settle deep in the pit of your stomach, or frolic in the cage of your ribs. It was enough to make a grown man throw a glass to the floor.

It shattered against the linoleum floor, sliding like shards of ice. Chapped lips pressed thin, pale skin stark against a pure black suit. Jade eyes pierced the floor beneath his feet, accusing it of every heinous deed life had committed upon him. No one understood. Not one person. Especially not the one person who he needed to understand. God- it- it just made him so angry.

What did Trevor expect? What the _hell_  did that man want him to do, huh? Did he truly expect Michael to choose him over his young, innocent family? They had been destined for better, or so he had thought, ten years ago.

_In the raging white of a blizzard, he froze on a crumbling hotel balcony. He hugged himself, a cigarette trembling on his blue lips. His nostrils stung with each inhale, cheeks numbing quickly. The tips of his ears burned. He feared they may fall off with the tap of a finger. That night, he had stared into the unforgiving wall of nothing. He had decided then, that his kids deserved better. His wife deserved better. They did not deserve to feel this sort of cold, all the time. Not when he couldn't keep them in a warm place long enough. He was always uprooting them to take them someplace safer. He hated hearing Tracey's sobbing. Her cries. 'What about my friends!?'_

Another, far worse realization had hit him late last year. In the form of a bullet. They were simply sticking up a small convenient store. It was a sad score, but a score nonetheless. He and Trevor had made their way in, casually.

_'T, how 'bout you go look for a drink, huh?' A thick mustache curved upwards. Michael traveled alongside Trevor, a shelf apart. They clocked any customers in the building, checking for weapons. Open carry is a thing in these parts. Michael caught sight of a well stuffed holster, just beneath an over sized coat. He sent a signal to Trevor, wiping the side of his nose with his thumb. The other male looked so childishly disappointed. They had spoke about this, and Michael had made his end clear. If there was a gun in one of these stores, he was not going to take part in a robbery. He couldn't risk it. His family couldn't do without him. He couldn't leave them like that._

_Trevor turned to signal out the window to their third party, Brad. Apparently Brad hadn't listened to instructions. Michael nearly fell back on his ass as a yellow coated man burst in through the door, pointing a gun straight at the cashier. Fear struck Michael. Immediately, he whipped around to face the armed civilian, who had unveiled the weapon and aimed it right at Brad._

_Michael had always been the hero type. At least he wanted to be. He yanked his own gun out, pointing it at the civilian. Trevor was already at the register. 'PUT YOUR GUN DOWN. NOW.' Michael barked, approaching the man. Said man fell to the floor, gulping and yelping in fear. He had obviously never actually used the weapon on anything but a target._

_If it had been Trevor, the man would be dead. But it was Michael. This man could have a family just like his own. He was a thief, but not that kind of thief, unless he had to._

_The panic, and his foolish mercy lead to one thing after another._

_BANG._

_Michael didn't remember slipping to the floor, next to a dead man. All he remembered was the dead look in his eyes and the ripping pain in his leg. He bared his teeth, crying out in agony. When he reached down, he could feel blood. Hot, sticky, and smooth._

_This was it, right? This was where it ended. He had failed his family. Amanda would never see him come home again. He'd never call her again. She'd never beg him to come back, to see the kids. God, the kids. They'd never see their father again. Tracey would hardly remember him. Jimmy... Jimmy wouldn't remember a thing about him. Oh, God. Amanda would have to get to work. She only knew one thing. The kids would be left alone, or in a babysitter's hands, which would soak up money. They'd be done for. Or worse, they'd find out who he was and pin Amanda to his name, the kids would be put in the system. Without him, they'd lose it all._

_Waking up that night in a dirty hotel room, with Trevor and his rotten breath hovering over him had been one of the best moments of his life. His family would be okay. He hadn't cursed once, not even as Trevor roughly dug the bullet out of the meat of his leg. Not once during the messy alcohol dousing. Not even while Trevor angrily and sloppily stitched up the hole in his limb._

_He was going home in the morning, with his fifty fucking dollar take._

It just wasn't worth it anymore.

And Trevor couldn't understand that. That lifestyle wasn't worth the risk. When the Feds had caught him in their clutches, he immediately searched for a way out. It took a lot of planning, and a lot of difficult decisions and agonizing acceptance for him to do it. But he did it.

He loved Trevor. He never wanted him to die, but those were the terms of his agreement. When Brad went down, dead, and Michael followed quickly behind with a bullet kissing his skin through a cheap vest, he thanked whatever man upstairs would listen when Trevor got out of the way. He thought his voice would go hoarse with the force of his screams for Trevor to just leave. Trevor wouldn't have to die. 

He had told Trevor to go for a reason. He never. Ever. Wanted him to die.

Trevor would never understand the sacrifices he made in the name of his family, even if they hadn't worked out in the end. Trevor would never realize how Michael saved his life. Trevor would _always_ be angry.

Michael would _always_ be the bad guy.

He'd  _always_  be the monster that pulled his family out of the hell of crime, and screamed for his best friend to leave the jaws of a springing death trap.

No one would care as he knelt to a finely carpeted floor, clutching a fine white couch as he cried. They'd only gawk and insult as he sobbed for his lost brother, the brother that would never truly come back to him for what he did. The brother silently watching, unseen in the shadows of the mansion, never understanding.


	2. Never Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idk- this is like a ramble story sort of? Just started writing aimlessly.

_TOUCHDOWN! AND MICHAEL TOWNLEY DOES IT AGAIN._

_God dammit, boy! You looked like a fucking faggot out there. God! Why the hell do I even try anymore!? Worthless! Worthless! What the fuck did I say about this!? You're making a fool out of me! Michael, get your faggot ass back out here, and take it like a man! You too used to taking dick like a bitch, you can't take a hit like a man no more? Come here, you worthless cunt._

Michael Townley. Praised and worshiped beyond doors. Punished and beat behind doors. He hadn't meant to nearly fumble. The ball was ready to roll right out of his grip. With some fancy footwork, he balanced the ball once again and tucked it safely beneath his bruising arm. There was no doubt that he loved the game, the thrill of winning. He was the star quarterback, winning was kinda his thing. Michael Townley made the front page everytime he played. If only he was so highly regarded at home. No, every mistake was him flaunting a homosexual side of himself. Prance a bit to avoid a tackle, and you must be taking it up the ass like some disgusting, worthless heathen. 

It was all because he had once kissed a boy. He hadn't meant to. He had been drunk at the time, goofing off at home. His mother was at work, and he hadn't realized his father had come home. It was a quick, sloppy kiss, but his father had seen enough.

On the field, he was so proud. His shoulders were square, arms muscled, legs like steel. He could get moving, and he could get moving fast. He could plow through oncoming tackles, easy. He'd do whatever it took to get that ball where it needed to be to earn himself and his team some ink on the town newspaper. Michael Townley had a handsome, square jaw, and a gorgeous, thick head of dark hair. His eyes were a pale blue, often seen as green. God, he was one fine specimen.

At home, though, he'd cower. He crouch down on the floor, large shoulders shrinking pathetically as he shielded his face. His mother had made him promise never to strike back. No matter how neglecting his mother may be, she didn't want her boy dead. His father, surprisingly, honored a fucked up code between them. Never the face or the lower arms, unless a game could be used as a cover-up.

The harder his father hit him, kicked him, punched him, the angrier he got.  _Why?_  He'd ask himself, before punching a splintered hole in the bathroom wall. He'd cradle his bleeding, pricked hand as he asked himself again.  _Why?_  Michael would hold the long since broken door shut with one hand as he cried, shielding his eyes from the mirror. He did not want to see himself in such a weak state. It was pathetic.

"Pull yourself together, Michael." He'd say, voice breaking.

God, he was such a fuck up. He once felt like he tried so hard. Maybe he wasn't trying as hard as he could. Maybe- maybe he was cutting corners. The heinous thought shook his core, sending him into a bout of shudders. His father beat him everyday for simple things. He was just a boy. It was so very hard to feel brave, and sure of yourself.

Michael slammed his fists down on the stained ceramic of his bathroom sink, baring his teeth as the tears slipped down his cheeks. He had to be sure of himself. He couldn't be wishy-washy, he couldn't be indecisive. He couldn't sit around and let this happen to him. He couldn't be like this. This had to stop. It had to. If his father kept getting rougher and rougher with him like he was, he was sure his life would soon depend on it.

He raised his head, staring into the cracked mirror ahead. His pale skin was easily marred by the signs of tears. His nose was red, eyes puffy and pink. Tears dripped off his chin, into the sink.

A nearby slam made him jump, and pathetically cower for approximately half a second. He listened to the irregular, scraping steps of a drunk man. His father.

"Michael, get the fuck out here."

A bodily reflex stopped the tears in their tracks. Such weak, faggot things would get him beat within an inch of his life. He quickly wiped his eyes on the sleeves of his athletic, school gifted sweater. It bore his number, and his name. He prayed to whatever merciful being there was, before exiting the bathroom.

Tonight was the night he began to talk back. He barked right back at his father. He demanded the man not to touch him. The look on the man's face alone was enough to get him through each beating. It felt so good to shock the man, to prove he wasn't some bitch. He would never hit him back, but he quickly developed a nasty tongue.

Some nights, his spiteful words were worthy enough to cut the beating short. Some nights, it only angered the man more. Either way, it was Michael's way of saying he was not going to just roll over and die.

He was the star quarterback. He would never quit. He would never be unsure again. At least, that's what he told himself.

Until he was cut from the team, too angry, and too injured. His father had stopped honoring their code, angry with his sons words. Michael would have bruises and cuts on his cheeks, he'd have head wounds and neck wounds. Half of them weren't even products of football. One night, his father hit him in the side of the head. It knocked him out. When he woke up, he couldn't hear in that ear. His father had rendered him half deaf.

The school was clueless, all they saw was an angry, reckless boy. They feared for his safety, and stole his most prized title away. His father stole his title. His father stole everything from him. His father even stole his spot on the front page, when found dead in his truck in a nearby river.

Michael never looked back at that town.


End file.
